Photograph
by Jeze Dantaliona
Summary: Title from Ringo Starr's "Photograph." Stan crashed the car with Kyle and Cartman inside, and now they're left to talk as they wait for him to awake from his coma.
1. Chapter 1

Stan pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator

and turned the steering wheel so the car was careening in the direction of his house. He switched on the tape deck and glanced fondly at the rosary hanging from the rear view mirror as Ringo Starr blared throughout the shit box of a vehicle. Kyle's edgy voice from the front seat and Cartman's wails from the back were overrun as Stan's thoughts ran rampant with the music, thinking of all of the reasons that doing this was for the best.

Considering the fact that Kenny was now permanently dead because of Stan, and Wendy had decided to leave his poor, permanently depressed ass forever for some hippie skank that converted her to lesbianism, Stan had reached his breaking point, and it wasn't his fault that Cartman and Stan had to be there for it.

"STAN, DUDE, JUST STOP THE CAR AND TALK TO US! STAN, DON'T DO IT, PLEASE DON'T-" Kyle cut himself off, watching in horror as Stan removed his seat belt and then hunched over with his foot pushing down even more on the gas pedal, taking his eyes off the road.

"Kyle, everything's just so fucked up man… I just can't take this anymore…" he choked out near silently and without gratification. Steady streams of tears poured from his eyes as he continued, "You guys are all I have left, and I don't want to you lose either…" Both boys vaguely heard the sound of a car door opening as Cartman hurled himself from the vehicle, and suddenly Kyle realized that all he could do was buckle his seat belt and hold onto the supports on either side of him in a desperate act of survival.

"STAN, WHATEVER HAPPENS, I LOVE YOU MAN, OKAY?" Kyle screamed out as loud as possible, praying that his best friend could somehow hear him and stop even though he was long gone. Kyle felt like he was too young to die, and he felt the same about Stan, but somehow he had seen this coming. Thinking back at all of the signs his best friend had exhibited through the emails and phone calls, how he had blogged depressing poems and journal entries depicting the demise of a character that was very much a replica of himself, a blind man could have seen the signs. Kyle knew that this sudden clearheaded revelation was not going to fix his forced denial.

But Kyle decided that the fact that he didn't try to stop it in time was because of blissful ignorance, not knowing and waiting for things to get better, or else the worrying would turn him into Stan. And as Kyle turned from studying the broken shell of his best friend just in time to witness the collision, time slowed down just enough for him to grab Stan's hand of the wheel and hold it.

"I love you Kyle, I'm so sorry…." the dark haired boy thought as he felt the car hit his house in a metallic crunch, letting go of Kyle's hand as he flew through the windshield. The hiss of the crushed car rose up into the air with Kyle's distressed groans into the ejected airbag. The sounds of the accident and the dissonant, far away radio meshed together into Kyle's perfect idea of a nightmare before quiet fully consumed him.

_Every time I see your face,_  
><em>It reminds me of the places we used to go.<em>  
><em>But all I got is a photograph<em>  
><em>And I realize you're not coming back anymore.<em>


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes you wake up, and in your head you plan to go downstairs and you watch some morning cartoons while waiting for your mother to make you pancakes with extra syrup, and you wait for life to go on as it normally does in its normal suck-ass way; yet, in reality, it never pans out like that. In reality, life just turns around and fucks you hard and then casually strolls away to allow you to pick of the broken pieces of what you once were and fumble to remember how to put them back right.

Mornings were always the worst part of the day for Stan. He hated not knowing how a day was going to turn out, and what he hated even more was that factors that were completely out of his control seemed to be the determining factors for how well his day was going to go.

But this particular morning seemed to be going quite swell. His mother made him some pancakes and eggs before she went to work, the hot water in the shower was working, he could find a clean pair of underwear, and it was the best possible day of anyone's work week: Friday. "Yes," Stan thought rather joyfully as he shoveled down another forkful of eggs and ketchup, "today is going to be a great day." Finishing up his breakfast, he cleaned his plate and headed to fix his uniform for work just as the phone began to ring. He grimaced to himself, figuring it to either be another telemarketer or another boyfriend of his mother's; however, he answered with all of the poise and pleasantry of a good day.

"Hello?" he answered simply, to the point and slightly pressing considering he had things to do.

"Stan? It's Wendy." An immediate smile lit up Stan's face. Wendy Testaburger, light of his life, apple of his eye, his love to end all loves."

"Hey Wendy, what's up?" he responded coolly, always trying to play the pleasure he gained from talking to her down. No matter how many years had passed from elementary school to now, he adored Wendy with all of his being.

"Um Stan… we…" the other end of the telephone was uncomfortably silent for a moment before continuing, "we have to talk." In a split moment Stan was on the floor with a sudden pressure building up in the left of his chest and spreading out.

"What…uh…what about, Wen?" he queried in a shaky voice, praying to God and whoever else listened that this wasn't what he thought it was.

"Look, Stan, I can't drag this out with you. I need to be clear, firm, and concise." She takes an audible breath of recollection before continuing. "I'm breaking up with you, for good this time. There's this girl, her name is…" Stan never caught the girl's name, because by that time his brain was tuned out and far away, trying to figure out if he had really heard what he just heard. It was impossible, simply impossible, there was no way that Wendy could be dumping him right now. It's not as though he was proposing marriage any time soon, but he thought that they were it, they were each other's forever. He couldn't believe this was happening…

"I'm so, so sorry, Stan, but I couldn't deny my true feelings any longer. I hope we can still be friends." A long pause stretched out between the two before a curt,

"I have to go Wendy. Have a nice life," sliced through it like a knife and transitioned back into it with a loud slam on the receiver.

Sometimes you wake up, and in reality you have a great morning, and then suddenly it feels like life had only fucked you in a fantasy.

* * *

><p>Kyle had to admit that life in college was pretty damn sweet. Harvard was everything a kid from South Park could ever dream of: free of parental control, full of hot co-eds and wild parties that none of the parents wound up attending. Deciding to become a lawyer and move as far away from South Park as possible had to be Kyle's best idea, and greatest personal achievement.<p>

Unfortunately, all wickedly awesome things must come to an end, and his end came in the form of summer break. Any other person in the world would probably greet summer vacation with open arms and legs, but Kyle knew that it just meant he had to return to his dreadfully Jewish and oppressive household. Not even his friends served as much incentive to return; well, except for Stan. Stan was still his best friend despite their lack of communication for their first year of separation, which was why he was the first person Kyle called as he was unpacking back in his old room. The line rang for a few seconds before it picked up.

"Hello?" a morose voice answered, worrying Kyle automatically.

"Dude? It's Kyle. What's wrong? Are you okay?" he interrogated.

"Hey man. Yeah, I'm fine, just a long day at work," Stan lied smoothly, smiling at a customer that just walked through the door. "What's up dude?" Kyle didn't believe his super best friend's charade at all, but he decided to continue.

"It's summer break, man! I just got back from school today, so do you want to hang out tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure. What do you want to do?"

"Let's just chill, play video games, shoot the shit. I have been so busy these past few weeks for finals, I need some down time. Especially now that I'm back home, you know my parents." A genuine chuckle resonated through the sound piece, something that sounded wonderful to Kyle's ears.

"Of course I know your parents, bro. I have to deal with your mom coming into the store twice a week, talking my ear off about how great her "bubbala" is doing at Harvard."

"Oh Jesus, does she really? Damn, yet another part of her plot to embarrass me to death."

"Nah, it's cute dude. She's a proud mama," Stan laughed back, almost forgetting the truly horrific start to his morning. "But anyway, I have to get back to work, so I'll see you around twelve tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah dude, of course. See you then." Kyle hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment, shrugged, and then kept on with his unpacking.

* * *

><p>Cartman could probably be considered the second most successful out of his group of friends. Despite the fact he hadn't been accepted into some suck-ass Ivy League school like that Jew, Kyle, but he was at least going to college and left South Park, unlike the butt-buddies Kenny and Stan. Hell, Cartman mused, Stan wound up being the most fucked situation-wise out of all of them. Kenny at least made a living off of whoring himself and dealing drugs, all Stan did was work at South Park's grocery store. The fag was probably the saddest story of South Park High.<p>

Naturally, Cartman could inwardly admit that he was definitely not in a situation where he was allowed to pass judgment. It's not like he left the state like Kyle, for Christ's sake. All he did was move to Denver to attend a community college and pick up a totally hot girlfriend named Layla (something he doubted any of the other fags would have been able to do, especially Stan, that whipped mother fucker), but he was at least doing something constructive.

Unfortunately, he was forced to return to the asshole on America's map for summer break and possibly a little goading on his crack-whore of a mother to give him money to help with rent. Layla was only a pretty face with no modeling career despite her dreams of having one, and Eric just had too much pride to hold onto one job for a few weeks, deeming each one he worked "a waste of time, even for a no-good dirty Jew."

So with his plans of travel set already executed with his mother, the travelling agency, and his pretty but dumb girlfriend, he figured he might as well have a good time visiting South Park as well. And, how should one have a better time than screwing with old buddies.

"Thank you for calling True Value, I'm Stan, how can I help you?"

"Hey fag-boy," Cartman replied with a smirk, "It's the totally awesomest person in the world, Cartman." An exasperated sigh could be heard on the other end; Stan was no doubt pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What the hell do you want, fat ass?"

"'Ey, I'm not fat anymore, you douchebag! Anyway, I'm done wasting time with this conversation that is so below me. I'm coming back in this hellhole, and after I break free from my mother I want to hang with someone. Keep tomorrow free, I'll be by expecting refreshments by twelve. See you then, you son of a bitch."

And just like that, Stan felt almost as if his day couldn't get any worse.

* * *

><p>"Kenny! Kenny!" Stan pounded at the poor boy's door, praying to God that tonight was truly his night off, and he hadn't found some random piece of ass he decided to bang. "Kenny, you poor, slutty, horny excuse for a human being, open the goddamn door!"<p>

"Dude, what the fuck? I was just finishing up a line, and now you're killing my high! Get the fuck in," he enunciated, pulling Stan within the dirty confines of his home before shutting and bolting his door. "To what do I owe this lovely visit?" Stan walked in to Kenny's dirty living room, the only room in his broken down flat. It had no couches or beds, just a cardboard box and some blankets to indicate sitting-areas-turned-beds. Something in the bathroom was dripping like it had been two weeks ago when Stan had last braved these squalid conditions.

"Everything has gone to shit real quick, Ken," he responded quietly, almost hopelessly. "I don't know what to do."

"Start from the top, kid, and then work your way down," Kenny responded with a quirked eyebrow, chucking quietly at his clever innuendo while preparing his other line.

"Wendy dumped me this morning for another chick. Like, apparently I turned her into some raging lesbian, and now she's dating some girl from her college or some shit, and now Kyle and Cartman are coming over to my fucking house at the same time and I just don't want to deal with all of their fighting and shit while I'm still dealing with Wendy." He paused for a long breath, about ready to start in for a second round of complaining before Kenny shoved a blunt in front of his face.

"Look, Stan, I love you, and I'm glad you feel that you can confide in me. But you need to get high, and then get laid, and then be happy, and you need all of those in that order. Seriously dude, you're such a fucking downer." He promptly proceeded to light the blunt and then shove it in between Stan's lips expertly. "Now, just-" he inhaled exaggeratedly while motioning to his mouth before returning to the cocaine.

Stan inhaled tentatively, allowing his mouth to fill with the happy smoke before exhaling in a thick puff and a small cough. "When does this shit work, Ken?" he asked, taking another puff.

"Depends on the person. Just keep smoking it; I have plenty more where it came from if you need more." Both boys sat in relatively comfortable silence, with only a continuous snort breaking the peace. After a while Stan could feel himself relax into the blanket he was on, falling prostrate onto the peculiarly stained piece of cloth in a swirl. Kenny watched the boy with interest, casually noting he was a light weight before lighting up another blunt and puffing away before handing it to Stan.

"You know Ken, I love you. Like, man, you're my bro. You didn't even leave me like Kyle did for some busty whores in his fucking fancy-schmancy Ivy League prestigious fucking university. You're a cool dude."

"Aw, don't say that Stan. You know that when people say shit like that, Fate goes out and makes a fool of them."

"But not for you, right Kenny? Because even if you die, you'll always come back, right?"

"Here Stan, I think it's time you moved up to the big boy stuff. Wanna try a little cocaine?" Stan looked up at the boy confusedly.

"Will it make me feel better?" he asked in a tone that could only be described as "blazed."

"Of course. Just, here, come here," Kenny got up and dragged the dark-haired boy over to the box, gently placing him in front of freshly cut lines of white powder. Now, take the tube-y thingy," he continued in words that a high person could understand, "and then inhale through it."

The first hit was like a jolt into the atmosphere, the second was like how it must feel to be God. The inexperienced boy fell back once more, staring at the brown-spotted ceiling as if it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

"Kenny, kiss me," he demanded, glancing over at the amused blonde. Kenny studied his friend thoughtfully for a moment, before slowly crawling over to him, not stopping until his body covered Stan's. Dipping his head low, he exhaled a scent of weed and candy, probably Twizzlers.

"Stan, I will kiss you, but first you have to listen to what I have to say, okay?" he started clearly, his bright blue eyes meeting Stan's darker ones, waiting for a nod. After the desired head movement, he continued, "Tonight, I am going to die for the last time. I am going to overdose, and you will wake up tomorrow morning to see that I am dead. Do you see what I'm saying, light-weight?"

"Mmm, kiss me Kenny, kiss me," Stan persisted, wrapping his arms around Kenny's neck and pulling him down.

"Well," Kenny thought as he geared up to obey the command of his intoxicated friend, "at least I can say I tried." And with that, he sealed his lips over Stan's, moving his chapped ones over his friend's surprisingly soft ones. The dark-eyed boy's eyes fluttered shut as he pulled Kenny in closer, deepening the kiss before it was abruptly cut off.

"Go to sleep, kid. You need it." The pressure against his body suddenly vanished, and as Stan's eyes fluttered closed, he vaguely made out a lanky blonde boy stumbling to the ground.

* * *

><p>And there's chapter two. I want to thank the two reviewers that took the time to read and review the first chapter, UngroundableDaywalker and chocomilksss. I really appreciate support, and I hope you all enjoyed this installment. :)<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Stan woke up with a skull-splitting headache and a depression that could kill Paris Hilton. He could just barely remember the night before, coming over to Kenny's and whining about his problems, and perhaps a vague memory of some drug use, but that was all of the recollection he could muster. He blinked violently, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the light. There was something rather unnerving about the airiness of his limbs and a deep feeling of dread festering at the back of his skull, but Stan tried his hardest to ignore it and wrench himself up from the blanket.

He knew that there was something off concerning the energy in the room. Sure, there were still beer bottles littering the place and a pungent smell that could only be described as pot, but the spiritual energy felt weak. Something was so off kilter that it made Stan sink even farther into a depression; a realization so devastating that to somehow recover from it would be a miracle.

Kenny was gone.

He wasn't sure how much time passed as he calmly recollected the night before, but he tried to measure it in the sounds of the doors in Kenny's shitty apartment slamming shut, starting the day for every piece of sleazy filth in South Park. Weaving his hand through his soft, black locks, Stan thought about coming over in complete distress, and doing drugs for the first time, and kissing Kenny…

"I kissed Kenny," he whispered out loud, trying to hold back tears that suddenly crept up on him. Yes, and before he kissed Kenny, _or_, more accurately, before he asked _Kenny_ to kiss _him_… Kenny told him that he was going to die. In a fuzzy, dazed state, Stan had watched Kenny die and he did nothing, nothing at all. And now, he had to try and think logically about what to do with the body. It was so fucked up, he realized, to have to deal with the corpse of your best friend this early in the morning, this early in life. He wasn't even in the mob, for Christ's sake, and now he had to worry about what to do with this rapidly decaying body?

Why the fuck did shit like this always happen to him? What did he do to make God and everyone else on earth to hate him so much? Only bad people who killed their grandmothers or John Lennon deserved shit like this, and here was Stan, poor Stanley Marsh, already considered a washed up high school star quarterback whose life had taken a wrong turn, dealing with the consequences.

He was sick. Sick and tired of feeling so fucking depressed all of the time, sick and tired of feeling so bitter and abandoned and alone.

Picking up his jacket and grabbing his keys off of the cardboard box strewn with marijuana, Stan had finally had enough.

* * *

><p>Kyle walked up the steps, running his hand nervously through his curly red hair. He wasn't altogether sure about why he was so nervous, or why he felt the urge to dress in his nicest pair of black jeans and a button up shirt. He chalked it up to what he liked to call his "sixth Jew sense." Ringing the doorbell to Stan's house, he just figured that perhaps he wanted to make a good impression on his friend, or-<p>

"What the fuck are you doing here, Jew?" Or maybe he could just tell that today wasn't the day to dress like the college slacker he was. In this particular situation, Kyle realized that he could turn around and fly at Cartman in a fit of passionate rage for calling him the nickname he absolutely detested. That was definitely an option worth considering, if one was still an immature high school kid with a quick temper. But no, this was Kyle Broflovski, straight A Harvard student extraordinaire. He was going to handle this unfortunately situation with class and even temper.

"Hello Eric," he responded evenly, not bothering to gaze upon the fat boy's visage. "Coming to see Stan as well?" _Yes, that'll throw him for a loop_, Kyle thought proudly. He waited for someone to answer while he waited for the fat ass to reply, but shockingly came to pass. Maybe, he figured, if I just stand here and face the door, someone with open it, and then I can go in and-

"Jew, I think it's pretty apparent that your butt buddy isn't coming to the door." Kyle felt his face flush at the accusation, and suddenly his blood was boiling under his skin like it hadn't in over a year. Now Cartman had gone too far.

Pounding the poor wooden portal with a fist before wheeling on the fat ass, Kyle had no thought of any consequences as he went face-to-face with his enemy.

"Don't ever call him that again, fat ass. He's my best friend, only my best friend, and you fucking know that."

"Well gee Kahl, the way you're getting all hot and bothered, I'd say that you're just covering up your-"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU RACIST, EGOTISTICAL, FAT SON OF A BITCH!" Kyle roared, trying his hardest to refrain from punching the fat bastard in the mouth. There were tricks that Cartman used to get under Kyle's skin, tricks that he must have picked up from some secret fucking government agency because no one could turn Kyle from calm to irate in three seconds flat like him. What seemed to infuriate the ginger even more was the fact that Cartman retained that smirk, that goddamn cocky smirk that even Kyle had to admit was pretty nice to look at. _Oh fuck no_.

"My my, Kahl, I didn't know that daywalkers were capable of turning redder than their hair," Cartman retorted, coolly staring down the green eyed boy through his sunglasses. Perhaps this trip to America's asshole wouldn't be too bad, he thought as he moved his body towards Kyle. And just before Cartman could get to the actual fun, a loud sputtering car spewing exhaust and just overall ugliness pulled up to the Marsh residence.

"GET THE FUCK IN THE CAR!"

* * *

><p>Kyle woke up to the sound of a rhythmic beeping. It was a sound that he had heard frequently in sad movies, the type of beep that indicated the life of someone and whether or not it was hanging by a thread. He blinked open his eyes, trying to figure out if maybe this was all just some nightmare, or if he really was where intuition told him.<p>

"Mr. Broflovski?" That was never a good sign. He looked over at the voice, taking in the middle-aged doctor handling a clipboard. The identification on his credentials said that he was Dr. Thomas Weaver, M.D. "Mr. Broflovski, can you understand me?" the voice came again, and Kyle had no choice but to respond.

"Yes, I understand."

"Good, good," Weaver responded as he checked a few things on the clipboard. "Mr. Broflovski, do you remember what happened?" Kyle shook his head immediately, wanting answers as soon as possible. He heard the doctor exhale, running his hand through his hair.

"Mr. Broflovski- may I call you Kyle?" After a quick nod from the Jewish boy, he continued. "Kyle, you were in a car accident with your friends, Stanley Marsh and Eric Cartman. Upon impact, your seatbelt failed and your head was pretty nicely bashed into the dashboard. You sustained minor fractures in your skull, as well as a concussion..." The doctor continued in the background as Kyle blinked rapidly at his blanket, trying his best to accept what the doctor was telling him. Millions of questions fired off in his head, like why was he in an accident? When did he meet up with Stan? Why in God's name was Eric Cartman there? What happened to his friends?

"Kyle?" he heard the doctor question, quickly snapping him out of his reverie and back to the situation at hand.

"What happened to them? My friends, what happened to them?" Weaver looked troubled for a moment, shifting back and forth nervously.

"Mr. Cartman, the plumper of the two, he managed to escape the car and sustained a broken arm and a few cracked ribs."

"And Stan? What about Stan?" Kyle asked desperately, fearing the response but needing to hear it.

"Mr. Broflovski, I'm sorry to tell you that Mr. Marsh is currently in a coma."


End file.
